


now flightless wings

by lasciel



Series: Ladder to Heaven [1]
Category: Borderlands, Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Ableism, Amputation, Blasphemy, Demons, Depression, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Gore, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Self-Harm, Torture, Virginity, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 06:05:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4468184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasciel/pseuds/lasciel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhys looks at the crucifix on his wall for the first time in an eternity, a small part of his heart still hoping for <i>something</i> — a sign, a hint—</p><p>Next to him, Jack clucks his tongue, standing up. “Oh, I'm so sorry, Rhysie.” He strolls over to the wall and stops next to the crucifix, looking over his shoulder at Rhys. “I forgot this piece of questionable interior design actually used to mean something to you.”</p><p>He stretches a hand out towards the holy symbol, and Rhys stops breathing —</p><p>Jack touches the bottom of the wooden cross, and nothing happens.</p><p>Rhys exhales, disappointed and relieved all at once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	now flightless wings

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the wonderful/awful, filthy pond that is the Take me to Church AU, poured together by: [sleazyfemmedad](http://sleazyfemmedad.tumblr.com/), [renqa](http://knifetwisters.tumblr.com/), [lelelego](http://lelelego.tumblr.com/) and [jettiebettie](http://jettiebettie.tumblr.com/). A huge thank you to them, and everyone else who has already contributed to this AU, making me want to dive right into its murky waters.
> 
> If you know Rhack and/or the Take me to Church AU then you are already familiar with your poison of choice. If not, then for all that is holy, please check the tags. This is unbetad, not based on a specific religion, and the referenced suicide does not pertain to any of the listed characters.
> 
> Dedicating this to renqa, for the amazing, inspiring, and (quite frankly) scorchingly hot art that she has kindly decided to share with us.
> 
> I'm going to see myself out now.
> 
>  **edit:** The wonderful and talented [radishezrom](http://radishezrom.tumblr.com) drew _amazing & breathtaking_ [nsfw art](http://ledgem.tumblr.com/post/125858331933/radishezrom-this-was-inspired-by-now-flightless) and [sfw art](http://ledgem.tumblr.com/post/126198997278/radishezrom-kekeke-this-is-all-ledgems-fault) for this, go look (slight spoilers)!
> 
> [Translated into Russian](https://ficbook.net/readfic/3502751) by the wonderful [Benitsubasa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Benitsubasa/pseuds/Benitsubasa).

Rhys comes to himself slowly, clawing his way towards consciousness through jumbled thoughts. He regrets it almost instantly when a throbbing pain at his temple makes itself known, radiating through his entire body.

He groans, trying to move his hands to clutch at his aching head, only to find himself unable to do so. Rhys frowns, looking down at himself with difficulty, his eyes refusing to focus for long, frightening moments. Thick, black bindings across his bare chest and legs, holding him down to a slab of stone, already warmed by his body.

Breathing in deeply and shakily, he tries to wall off the raising sense of panic that threatens to overwhelm him.

“Hello?” he says carefully, and only the echo of his voice answers him, making him shiver. There's a handful of candles placed on the stone above his head, giving off barely enough light to see the walls of the empty, windowless room he is in.

Rhys waits for a moment longer, but nothing happens, and he attempts to free himself, ignoring the nausea that has joined the pain in his head. The bindings won't budge at all, and he only succeeds in aggravating the skin underneath the restricting material.

He breathes in again, trying to think past the distracting pain at his temple. Somebody attacked him, knocked him out and brought him here, that much is obvious.

Rhys just can't figure out _why_. He's nobody important, still merely a priest trying his best to serve God, to live his life by His example and rules.

Of course he strives to move further up in position, to become even closer to God, but surely there is nothing condemnable about that? No, there can't be, not when he has Vaughn and Yvette at his side, when they are all doing their best to achieve the goal of a still honest but better life.

The shadows around him flicker, and Rhys swallows, the movement drawn-out and uncomfortable in his dry throat.

How long has he been down here already?

He swallows again, barely any spit but all of his pride.

“Jack?” he whispers into the emptiness of the room, feeling helpless and unbelievably foolish. This isn't the enigmatic entity's style at all, Rhys is sure of it, but at least then he would know _who_ did this to him.

Rhys blinks rapidly, blurry eyes intent on the shadows around him.

Nothing, no change to the atmosphere in the room, no familiar feeling of being watched, of not being alone even when you know that you should be.

Or maybe Jack has run out of patience and is done playing with him?

A shudder crawls down his body at the thought, a reaction Rhys doesn't understand at all. Shouldn't he feel relieved to finally be rid of the dangerous influence, the teasing words, and tempting— _dangerous_ touches?

But alone and hurting in this dark room, Rhys would even welcome Jack's presence at his side.

Rhys' fingernails dig into the material of his trousers, and he clenches his jaw, ignoring how this makes his head throb even more.

Is this his punishment for letting Jack get to him in the first place? Or is it punishment for the dreams Rhys can never properly recall upon waking, distant imagines that leave his mind and body longing for something he doesn't even fully understand, aching for something intimate and forbidden.

He refused Jack again two days ago, though Rhys did not push him away when the man crowded him against a chair. He thinks he can still feel the phantom touch on his thighs, the pressure of large, warm hands: A suggestion, a demand.

Rhys never touches Jack, not even to stop his advances, convinced that doing so would bring with it immediate, divine retribution. 

A shiver crawls down his arms, the warmed stone at his back at odds with the cool air in the room.

Nobody is coming for him, not even Jack.

He sucks in a sharp breath, thinking about Jack's face contorted with first annoyance and then anger when Rhys refused to react yet again, not even with the verbal protests that he is usually incapable of swallowing for very long.

“Fine, cupcake. Have it your way,” Jack said, weirdly pleasant, raking two fingernails across Rhys' right arm before vanishing, leaving behind angry, red lines and a confused, nervous Rhys.

Nothing since then, and Rhys still has to thank Vaughn and Yvette for their advice in dealing with... weird dreams and thoughts: Ignore them until they go away. He couldn't tell his friends the full extent of Jack's apparitions or even of Jack himself, of course not, that would have made it too real, but they noticed the lack of sleep, the tiredness and jumpiness Rhys was unable to hide for very long.

Two restful nights of sleep and Rhys tried not to think about Jack anymore, did not allow himself to miss the charismatic and mysterious man, the insistent lack of his attention.

No, this can't be divine punishment. Rhys resisted temptation, showing his strength of will. He is devoted to the life he chose at a young age, happy to dedicate his being to something greater.

A sound somewhere to his right, and Rhys startles, realising how long he must have lost himself to his musings. The creaking of a door, heavy steps and then Father Henderson appears at his side, carrying a candlestick.

Relief washes through Rhys, leaving him even dizzier than before.

“Henderson,” he manages to croak, “help me. Somebody attack me, I don't know how long I've already been down here, I—“

The ornate candlestick comes down on the stone next to Rhys' face with a loud clank, startling Rhys into silence. “Be quiet, demon.”

Rhys stares at Henderson's blank face, uncomprehending.

“... Father Henderson?” Rhys must have misheard, must be hallucinating. He probably has a concussion or maybe it is the thirst getting to him.

Henderson shakes his head at Rhys while he digs into the pouch at his side. “You can stop with this farce now,” he says almost absently, “I've seen through you. You can stop pretending to be this poor boy.” He places items on the stone, one with a thud followed by smaller clanks, but Rhys can't tear his gaze away from his mentor, from the hard set of the usually kind eyes.

“I don't... I don't understand...”

Henderson sighs, placing his hands next to Rhys' and leaning over his bound form. “I have to admit, you are very clever, hiding in one of the nicest and most diligent working of us... who would suspect sweet, honest Rhys?” He shakes his head again, making a disgusted sound. “But this was also your biggest mistake. See,” he says, leaning closer, and Rhys holds his breath at the feverish gleam in Henderson's eyes, “I _know_ this boy, I have worked with him for many years already.”

Henderson leans back, and Rhys sucks in air desperately, his palms clammy, his stomach rolling.

“Henderson,” he tries again, voice shaking, “ _Saul_ , please, I am not possessed! I am nobody but myself!”

A slight flinch at his first name is the only reaction Henderson gives him. “You probably became arrogant when you succeeded in driving Sister Beatrice away from us,” he says quietly, as if Rhys hadn't spoken at all. “Not to mention what you did to Brother Hugo.”

Rhys frowns. Vasquez? What does he have to do with anything? Rhys hasn't even seen him around for the last few days, not that he is sad about that, can't stand the man, his arrogance, his stupid hair...

Henderson stares at him, hard and merciless until dread sets heavily in Rhys's stomach and he can't help but ask, “What happened to Vasquez?”

A huff, and Henderson smiles without any humour to it. “You tried to make him take his own life.”

Rhys stops breathing, feeling his eyes widen. Vasquez and he have never gotten along, but this— Rhys wouldn't wish this on anyone.

Henderson raises an eyebrow, expression grim. “Yes, you failed. Thanks to God's mercy, Hugo was found before it was too late.”

Rhys shakes his head desperately, ignoring the abused skin underneath the bindings, and the returning dizziness in his head. “No, I didn't do anything! I didn't even know Vasquez was hurt!”

Henderson sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping. “Still not giving up, are you? Then you leave me no other choice, demon.” He grabs one of the items he placed on the stone before, raising it until Rhys' eyes inevitably fall on it.

A hammer.

Bile raises in his throat, and Rhys starts trashing against the restraints holding him even before his mind has fully comprehend Henderson's intention. “I'm not possessed! There is no demon here!” His voice gives out on the last word.

“Do not think that I will hesitate,” Henderson says, before bringing a shaking bottle to his lips and taking a long gulp of its contents. He lets the bottle fall from his hand, and Rhys is barely able to hear it shatter on the floor over the blood rushing inside of his ears, over the loud sound of his breathing. “Even though the others did not take my concerns seriously, I _know_ what must be done.”

He leans in closer again, and Rhys can't hold back a whimper when Henderson strokes over his hair, a gentle touch maddeningly at odds with the entire situation. “Rhys, if you can hear me,” Henderson begins haltingly, his eyes bright and beseeching, “You must know that I would never do this if there was another option.” 

Henderson presses his lips onto Rhys forehead then, and the scream trapped inside of Rhys' throat threatens to tear him apart from the inside out. He's only dimly aware of the wetness at the corners of his eyes, too focused on trying to make Henderson understand that he is making a horrible mistake. “Don't, please, you are wrong, I am not possessed.”

His pleading falls on deaf ears.

“Rhys would never fall asleep during a sermon. You told his friends a lie about sleeping badly and having nightmares, but it is all your doing, isn't it, demon? You use the night to further your unholy machinations, to drive good people away from their path.”

This is a test, Rhys rationalises to himself frantically, his breath trapped inside of his chest. Any moment now this will all be revealed to be his final test for the promotion Henderson mentioned not so long ago, and then Vaughn and Yvette will burst in through the door and congratulate him on their well earned success.

Henderson's fingers close around Rhys' right arm suddenly, and Rhys lets out a startled shriek, feeling his throat tear. “Look at this,” Henderson demands, tone low, and Rhys stares at his bare arm in confusion, not seeing anything remarkable. “It seems that you are not in complete control. Rhys left me a sign, a call for help.” He traces over the two scratches Jack left on him days ago, and Rhys can feel the tears of desperation and fright fall freely now.

Henderson is mad and there is absolutely nothing Rhys can do to stop him. “God, please,” he whimpers, staring at the dark ceiling above him with blurry eyes, “help me.”

God won't forsake him now. Rhys kept his body pure for Him, doing his best every day to do the same with his heart and mind.

God saved Vasquez from the worst part of hell — He _can't_ forsake Rhys.

Henderson makes a disgusted noise, taking a long, thick nail into his other hand. “You are only shaming yourself in keeping up this farce. Give up, leave Rhys and all of us in peace, return to the dark place that you belong to.”

The hammer in Henderson's grip is trembling, and Rhys is sobbing freely now. He needs to buy himself time, God is already intervening, any moment now somebody, anybody will appear to rescue him from this fanatic.

He swallows the awful taste in his mouth, trying his best to focus past the panic buzzing inside of his ears. How can he make Henderson pause, how can he make him hesitate? Rhys feels hope well inside of him, remembering something from a few weeks ago, a conversation with Vaughn and Yvette, a piece of information about his idol he did not want to believe until now. “Henderson, please, listen to me.” He tries to soften his words with a smile, feeling it shaking at the edges. “I know about the money you have been taking from the treasury. Let me go, and God will surely forgive your moment of weakness.” 

Rhys regrets the words almost immediately, the slap Henderson gives him making the dizziness and throbbing in his head return full force.

“ _Enough_ , demon. My missteps are between me and God alone, and you will leave this boy and our divine halls now!” Henderson bellows, placing the nail high up on Rhys right forearm, raising the hammer high up, the shadows around them flickering wildly.

“No, please—”

The hammer falls onto the nail, parting skin and flesh in its wake, and Rhys screams until he cannot make a sound any longer. He lies there, feeling wetness spread out underneath his back, sucking air into heaving lugs. 

For one wonderful moment there is nothing, and then a voice drags him back into his body.

“Begone, demon!”

Rhys comes back to himself, opens his eyes and stares at the ruin of his arm, at the flesh and glimpse of white visible at the bottom of the bronze nail embedded into it—

He forces his head to the other side with an abrupt move, bile spilling past lips opened into a silent scream.

“ _Begone_!”

His chest rattles with every inhale, and he's nothing but pain, nothing but the vile taste in his mouth and the broken sounds falling from it.

Nails dig into his chin, tilting his head back to the monster standing by his side.

“Why won't you give up?” Henderson asks him, voice tinted with desperation.

There is something funny about Henderson being the one to beg him, but Rhys doesn't understand why this should be funny. He doesn't understand anything at all.

Unbearable brightness moves closer to him, and he screws his eyes shut again, unable to turn away from it.

The fingers holding his head wander up, two of them forcing his left eye wide open.

He stares at the man he thought of as a friend, at the face deformed by fanaticism, and at the madly swinging cross around his neck.

“I will make you leave, and they will call me a hero for rescuing all of us,” Henderson whispers, moving the burning candle in his hand closer to Rhys' eye, until Rhys can feel its heat scalding the skin of his cheek.

A sharp, white flare, burning away the last shreds of Rhys.

Then, nothing.

* * *

He is dimly aware of loud voices, of a commotion outside of the painful bubble that traps him.

Something is torn out of his right arm, renewing the pain and forcing a scream out of his abused throat. He chokes on the sound, aware of hands on him, wanting them gone.

He's grateful when blackness claims him again.

* * *

He comes to himself by painful increments only to be rewarded with another dark room. 

A high-pitched sound echoes around him, and only when he starts trashing on the soft surface he's lying on does he release that the sound is coming from him.

It's followed by another realisation, one that makes his heartbeat flutter and his throat burn: He's still bound. He's still in danger, nobody came to help him, he'll die at the hands of a lunatic and God will do nothing but watch—

“Oh, Rhysie.” A familiar voice, large, warm hands framing his face, and Rhys stops moving, blinking one eye open dazedly, the other refusing to do anything more than ache.

At first he thinks that he must be having another dream, his head filled with sticky cotton, but it really is Jack's scarred face looming above him, loosening the material stretching across Rhys' chest.

Rhys blinks again, slow, confused. He makes a quiet, rough sound that was supposed to be Jack's name, and Jack's lips curl into a smile.

“There you are, cupcake,” he says quietly, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles on Rhys' cheeks.

The left side of Rhys' face is covered with a soft material — bandaged. He relaxes slightly, still staring at Jack, leaning into his touch without conscious thought.

He was rescued after all.

Henderson is not here — Jack is.

He can't open his left eye because Henderson— because Henderson hurt it.

Reflexively, Rhys tries to move his arms up to his face to check the damage for himself. He freezes almost instantly, not only because of the restraints.

Something is— is _off_ , his body not reacting properly, his right side numb and somehow still painful.

“What,” he manages to croak, tensing again, desperately trying to turn his head.

Jack's grip on him tightens, his face moving even closer until all Rhys can see is Jack, his eyes, intense and almost seeming to glow. “Hush now, kiddo, you need to rest,” Jack tells him sternly, one of his palms wandering to Rhys' throat and staying there, a firm, somehow comforting weight.

Rhys sighs silently, feeling himself calm down almost instantly. Usually he bristles at Jack calling him 'kiddo', but it doesn't even come to his mind to protest this time or to find this strange, as if a sedating veil has settled over the cotton inside of his head.

Jack hums, his smile widening. “That's it, don't try to think.” When it becomes clear that Rhys will be good and not move his head, Jack's second hand wanders down as well, tracing over Rhys' throat and breastbone until it settles onto his chest, right above his heart.

There's a blanket covering Rhys' chest, but even through the thick material he can feel Jack's palm pressing down, an insistent burden during every breath that he takes.

“Don't want your pretty head getting banged up even further now, do we?” The thumb at Rhys' throat settles on his Adam's apple, and Rhys swallows, shaking his head slightly in confirmation, feeling his face warm at the words.

Jack's expression turns serious, the deep lines in his forehead making the scar spanning across his face seem even more prominent.

Rhys frowns, the movement pulling at the bandage, making him dimly aware of the ache in his left eye again. He makes a quiet sound, closing his quickly tiring other eye.

“You had to endure so much,” Jack says quietly, gently stroking over Rhys' throat. “If only these imbeciles had gotten to you sooner or recognised the lunatic hiding in their midst for what he was. You wouldn't have had to suffer at his hands if they had only paid attention.”

Rhys whines, pressing his eyes shut tightly, ignoring the flaring pain in the left one. He can feel the bindings returning, feel Henderson looming above him with the hammer in his hand, ready to strike at him once more—

Jack makes a soothing sound, clucking his tongue in gentle reprimand. “It's alright, Rhysie,” he says quietly, voice deep and soft, making Rhys open his eye again to stare at him. “I'm here now, and I won't let anyone hurt you again.”

It shouldn't be a comfort, hearing this from Jack, not from someone so tempting and dangerous. And yet, when the hand on Rhys' chest moves in soothing circles, it becomes difficult to remember _why_ he should want Jack gone.

“If I had known that God would abandon you this cruelly, I never would have let you out of my sight,” Jack says evenly, _earnestly_ , and the words cut through the weird calmness holding him under.

No, Jack must be wrong, God did not abandon him — he's still alive after all, saved just like Vasquez. There must be a reason for the ordeal he had to endure. He stares at Jack with one blurry eye, his jaw set, denying Jack's poisonous words with an almost frantic shake of his head.

God is not cruel, he wants to scream, He is merciful and just.

Jack settles down heavily next to him with a wary sigh, and Rhys is acutely aware of the leg pressed against his thigh. The hand on his throat moves up to cup his face, turning Rhys' head fully to the right side, towards Jack. “Oh, you poor little thing,” Jack murmurs, full of pity, “you haven't realised yet what they have done to you.”

Rhys makes a quiet, annoyed sound in the back of his throat, bristling at the condescension. It's over, he survived. This won't break him, he's stronger than that.

Jack's gaze cuts to Rhys' right shoulder deliberately, and Rhys' eye follows the movement automatically.

His shoulder, heavily bandaged, a deep red seeping through the once white material. Rhys frowns. Something is wrong about the picture, his shoulder seemingly too short, ending almost abruptly.

He blinks rapidly, angry at his still working eye for playing a trick on him, for making the folds of the blanket covering him look far closer than they can possibly be. He tries to move his right arm, bracing himself for the pain sure to come—

Nothing.

Not even a twitch of the blanket.

Rhys cannot _breathe_.

“They didn't want to risk the infection spreading, the charlatans, but I doubt that you would've had any problems beating some stupid germs. You are resilient, aren't you, cupcake?”

Rhys tries again, sending a desperate command to _move_ to his right arm, thinking at it for all he is worth.

“Rhysie.”

His eye burns at the lack of rest, but he can't stop staring at the empty place where his right arm is supposed to be.

“ _Rhys_.”

His chest burns for air, dizziness threatening to pull him under, but all he can do is to stare and think at his missing arm—

A resounding slap, a stinging pain on his cheek, startling him into a deep inhale.

Calloused fingertips caress the throbbing skin on his face, and Rhys blinks rapidly until Jack's face comes into focus again.

No, not Jack. The being staring back at him with glowing, mismatched eyes is something out of a nightmare, a silent snarl twisting expression and scar alike into something almost unrecognisable. There's an unfathomable darkness spreading behind the apparition, and Rhys can feel the blood freeze inside of his veins, terror claiming him to the very core at the sight of something so terrible, final and ethereal.

In the next second Jack's face settles into an amused smile, the darkness behind him dissolving. “There you are again. Don't scare me like that, kiddo,” Jack says jovially, and the undertone in his voice makes Rhys shiver.

The fingers on Rhys' cheek resume their soothing touches, and Rhys feels sapped completely, letting Jack's other head manoeuvre his head as he wants, like a marionette whose strings have been cut.

Jack's voice turns lower, as if sharing a secret. “I want to do something for you, to reward you for your bravery in the face of all this detestable scheming. What do you say?”

Rhys swallows heavily, until he finally manages to find his voice again, all of his focus on Jack. “...bravery?” he repeats in a weak whisper.

Jack hums, pleased, tracing over Rhys' bottom lip with his thumb. “That's right. You are very brave, pumpkin. There are not many people who survive betrayal of this magnitude, trust me on this.” He winks then, before his face becomes solemn again so quickly, Rhys can't help but wonder if he just imagined it. “First your little friends — what were their names again...?” He tilts his head, tapping his chin with one finger, and Rhys is transfixed by the candlelight mirrored in his mismatched eyes. “Ah, yes — Vaughn and Yvette, the little frauds.”

Rhys can feel his face contort in confusion, and Jack tuts at him. “How else do you think Henderson learned about your...” He stops for a moment, seemingly savouring the next words before finishing the sentence with great relish, “restless nights.”

His heart skips a beat, only to resume it's rhythm brokenly. No, they wouldn't— Rhys told them in private— How does Jack even _know_ about—

“And then your mentor, the man you looked up for guidance for so long,” Jack continues mercilessly, and Rhys closes his eye, feeling despair seep into him.

Jack's other hand pets over his hair and Rhys hiccups, trying to ignore the tears spilling from his eye, the ache in his damaged one becoming even stronger.

“So pure of heart, and faced with so much opposition, and yet God did nothing to help you when you were being torn apart in His name.”

A sound tears out of Rhys' throat, small, weak.

Broken, just like he is.

Jack shushes him, fingers gentle on Rhys' face. “Let _me_ help you instead,” Jack says evenly, and the words seem to resonate inside of the empty shell Rhys has become, filling every inch of him. “Let me be your saviour.”

“What can you do?” Rhys asks desolately before he can think better of questioning the entity. After all, there's nothing left to save anymore.

Instead of anger, Jack's smile turns into a dark smirk, his eyes gleaming. “There's nothing I _can't_ do,” he answers easily, without any doubt or humility.

And Rhys... Rhys wants to believe him more than anything.

Jack's hand settles onto the bandaged side of Rhys' face, and he braces himself for a flaring pain.

But the hand doesn't press down, merely staying there. “They haven't realised it yet — incompetent idiots — but the piece of shit managed to destroy your eye.”

Rhys flinches — not at the expletive but at the returning fury in Jack's voice, at the dancing shadows on the wall. He isn't surprised that he is even more broken than he realised, unable to muster up any sort of emotion at the revelation.

“Let me give you a present, sweetheart.” Jack leans in closer again, filling Rhys' limited vision completely, his breath warm against Rhys' dry lips, whispering his next words against them. “An eye.”

“...an eye,” Rhys repeats tonelessly, incapable of even forming a simple sentence on his own.

Jack's smirk widens, and Rhys' gaze seems to be glued to his thin lips, distantly wondering how they would feel pressed against his own—

“Exactly, kiddo, one eye, as good as new.”

Rhys frowns at the phrasing, looking up again, and Jack chuckles, a low, sinister sound that makes Rhys shiver. “I won't kill anyone for it, in case you are worrying about that.” Jack leans back, placing one hand on the brown material covering his chest. “Cross my heart, hope to die, and all that jazz.”

Rhys sucks in a breath. He hadn't even thought about that, about the implications and consequences of accepting anything from Jack.

And with Jack looking like this, eager and excited, it's impossible to connect him to the haunting presence of the last weeks, much less the frightening spectre of only moments before.

It's even more difficult to remember why he should still deny Jack while his body and mind are broken and in pain. This might be the house of God, but it is Jack at his side, tending to him and offering to help, and that has to mean something, doesn't it? 

Right now, it seems to be everything he has.

Rhys nods slowly, and Jack's eyes widen in delight.

“Say it,” Jack demands, his grin now wide enough to allow a hint of teeth.

He swallows, trying to think past the pain now openly radiating from his right shoulder through his entire body, and the persistent ache in his left eye. Rhys wants to please Jack, wants to show him that he appreciates Jack's presence and his offer, afraid of losing the one support he still has. He whimpers, tears welling up in his eye once more. “I'm sorry, I don't know what you want me to say.”

Jack chuckles, petting Rhys' head again. “The good stuff is wearing off, isn't it? Don't you worry, Jack won't leave you hanging.” His eyes brighten then, his gaze on Rhys almost like a weight. “Feel free to repeat after me,” he almost sing-songs, and despite the pain, Rhys can feel his lips twitching into a weak smile, “I accept your gracious offer, and you as my personal saviour.”

Rhys inhales deeply, but before he can open his mouth, Jack raises a hand to stop him, looking thoughtful.

For one moment Rhys is afraid that the offer will be withdrawn, that Jack just realised how damaged Rhys really is—

But then Jack hums, nodding to himself before adding, voice quiet, “I give myself to you freely, and accept you into my very heart.”

That seems... that seems reasonable, right? Rhys blinks, his tiring eye burning, joining the other anguishes plaguing him.

“I accept your gracious offer,” Rhys repeats softly, unable to look away from the blatant joy on Jack's face, “and you as my personal saviour.” He ignores the flickering candlelight, the wandering shapes on the wall, staring only at Jack's mesmerising eyes. “I give myself to you freely, and—“ He swallows again, before whispering, “And accept you into my very heart.”

Jack claps his hands together once, making Rhys jump slightly. “I knew you would see reason eventually, Rhysie.” He presses a sudden kiss against Rhys' sweaty forehead, making the breath hitch in his throat, the contact gone again before he can fully process it.

Rhys' mind is still reeling, and suddenly there's a gleaming, golden dagger in Jack's hand, the handle weirdly bereft of ornaments apart from some black, distinct lines.

He is not afraid — there's nothing Jack could do to hurt him that others haven't already done to him.

“Eye on me, pumpkin,” Jack says, snapping his fingers at Rhys, and Rhys rushes to obey.

There's a wide smile on Jack's mouth. “It's not going to be pretty, and you've already had a rough couple of days,” he admonishes, but Rhys cannot stop his eye from flickering back to the dagger as it moves, stopping just below the crook of Jack's left arm. “Last warning, kiddo.” 

The dagger presses into Jack's flesh, and Rhys flinches, quickly looking back to Jack's face.

Warmth drips onto the blanket where it is covering Rhys' legs, slowly drenching it, and Rhys shudders through every inhale that he forces into his lungs, unable to look away from Jack's piercing gaze, the smell of blood heavy in his nose.

There's a wet, sickening sound, and Jack makes a satisfied noise, somewhere between a grunt and a groan.

Rhys can't stop trembling, feeling Jack's blood seeping through the blanket, running down his hip and between his legs.

“That was actually more painful than I thought,” Jack says grudgingly, running his clean hand through his hair, the dagger suddenly gone.

Before he can think better of it, Rhys' looks at Jack's other hand, but all he can glimpse is red and a spot of white in its middle, before he has to swallow heavily, dizziness claiming him.

“Now I just need to put this into you,” Jack says easily, and the red hand comes closer, dripping warm and wet onto Rhys' face, before the fingers slip underneath the bandage covering his left eye—

Something is poking his cheek, and Rhys groans, blinking groggily, an awful taste in his mouth.

A low chuckle. “Probably for the best that you took the cowards' way out. Not going to lie, it was pretty messy.”

“What happened?” Rhys' asks, his head feeling heavy.

Jack smiles at him, looking pleased. “I gave you your well-deserved present, and took the liberty of cleaning up all the blood, because I don't think we'll be alone for much longer.”

For one moment, Rhys doesn't know what Jack is talking about, his right shoulder feeling like it is burning, slowly consuming him, making any thought impossible.

Rhys whines, long and high. “Hurts.”

Jack's face moves closer, a frown on his forehead. “Wait, wait, you talking about the eye?” Fingers prod at the bandaged side of his face, the one part of his body somehow not aching. “It shouldn't, I'm pretty sure I got this right.” 

Rhys shakes his head weakly, shifting restlessly in the loosened bindings, trying to alleviate the pain.

Jack settles back, huffing. “Right, probably high time for another dosage of drugs.” He looks to the side, and between one blink and the next, Jack... changes.

Gone are the open shirt and slacks, replaced by a very familiar piece of dark clothing: A Father's robe. What unsettles Rhys the most, though, is the missing scar on Jack's face, making him look frighteningly normal and almost unrecognisable.

“What—“ Rhys manages to choke out, only to be interrupted by the door opening.

A small man stands in the doorway, a heavy looking bag in one hand, the doorknob still in the other. “Father John,” the man says, sounding startled, “I wasn't aware that you knew my young patient here.” He closes the door behind him, moving closer and placing his bag on the nearby table.

Jack... No, the man sitting at Rhys' bedside — now a respectable distance between them — still radiates charm as if it is in the very air he exhales, but it is a different sort of charisma, friendly, instead of sinister.

It is a more frightening transformation than the earlier one, when Jack's mask slipped in anger, and if Rhys was any more present, more himself, he would tear his skin fighting against the restraints holding his body in a desperate attempt to get away from him.

“I'm afraid I did not have the chance to get to know young Rhys properly yet in the short while I have been here, but I have seen him around,” Jack says wryly, posture straight, gesticulating with one hand.

 _Around_. Dimly, Rhys cannot help but be amused at how Jack describes the weeks of filthy whispers and foreboding touches he bestowed upon Rhys at every opportunity.

The doctor nods. “I've heard about how busy you've been restructuring the organisation in the monastery. It is really commendable that you took the time for a sick bed visit.”

Rhys should probably feel annoyed about being treated as if he is not there, but it is difficult to fault the doctor for being captured by Jack’s presence, and difficult to think past the throbbing pain washing over Rhys in waves.

Jack hums, turning away from the doctor and placing a hand on Rhys' left leg, high up on his thigh. Even with his skin burning like this, it is as if Jack is touching his naked skin, and Rhys sucks in a silent breath, unable to look away from Jack's mismatched gaze.

At least that has not changed.

“It is the least I can do, to offer young Rhys whatever comfort I can, considering the ordeal God made him endure,” Jack says quietly, eyes piercing. Hidden from the doctor, his thumb wanders, slipping between Rhys' legs, pressing the blanket down slightly. It's not close enough to his groin to be called taboo, yet still far too intimate for Rhys to even hope to comprehend.

The doctor coughs loudly, and Rhys tears his gaze away from Jack with difficulty, afraid of having been found out, of being banished from his home because of Jack's wandering hands.

But the doctor's eyes are fixated on the crucifix on the wall, his movements hasty as he crosses himself. “I'm sure God had his reasons, and that Rhys will be rewarded for the strength of will and faith he has shown.”

Jack turns back to the doctor, and nods, still looking at Rhys out of the corner of his eyes, holding him captive. “Oh, of that I have no doubt,” he says easily, almost a purr, his thumb pressing into the fleshy part of Rhys' leg for one awful, exhilarating moment.

He cannot deny the sound that escapes past his lips then, something high and pitiful. If he still had the energy for it, he would turn a scarlet red at the two sets of curious eyes settling on him.

Hasn't he suffered enough already?

Jack pats his hip once, standing up. “I do think your patient is due for his pain medication, doctor.”

The doctor nods, already busy searching through his bag's contents. “Of course, of course. If that exhausting man Hugo — God continue to hold his protective palms over him — had not kept me this long—“ 

He startles when Jack slaps him heavily on the back, leaning close enough to be called a hug, voice low. “Do try to allocate your time between your patients more effectively from now on, doctor. I would hate to have to look for a replacement for you as well.”

The doctor nods enthusiastically, his face white. “Of course, Father John, I apologise.”

Jack pats his shoulder, pushing him in Rhys' direction. “Your apology should be directed at your neglected patient, don't you agree?”

Sitting down heavily onto a chair next to the bed, the doctor nods, reading a syringe with shaking hands. He looks at Rhys then, showing a trembling smile. “I'm very sorry, young man. You must be in so much pain already.”

Rhys makes a non-committal sound, all he can manage at this point, his gaze falling on Jack at the open door. 

He welcomes the wide smile Jack sends him just as much as the sting at his side, promising relief.

* * *

Days turn into weeks, and the pain lessens eventually, though Rhys still feels brittle, as if he will become undone any moment now, finding himself strapped down and bleeding, suffering. 

When it's not Vaughn or Yvette at his side, both looking gaunt and tired, it's the doctor, tirelessly checking Rhys' vitals and the—

The stump.

Rhys knows that he is not well, that he is comping apart at the seams.

But he cannot stand to be in the presence of another human being right now, cannot endure to see their pity and the constant pain on top of it.

It doesn't matter if it's Vaughn or Yvette or anyone else he spent time with in the last years — he sends them out with biting words, staying curled into himself in the almost completely dark room he used to call home. He doesn't think he'll ever leave it again, and he does not want to look at his friends' faces only to catch sight of the betrayal on them.

And Jack or Father John or whoever — _whatever_ he really is — the only person who understand Rhys... has yet to show himself again.

Rhys would wonder if he only imagined him in the first place... only...

When the doctor finally removes the bandages covering the left side of Rhys' face, and Rhys blinks both of his eyes open with trepidation, the doctor gasps, and Rhys realises that he should have worried about something else entirely.

It is not his ruined body, his missing arm that the people will stare at from now on when they see him. Did Jack brand him, making his unholy deal visible for the entire world to see and judge?

Rhys holds his breath, waiting for the other man to call him _demon_ , and for him to flee in horror at the sight of the surely cursed and abhorrent eye.

But the doctor merely leans forward, excited, shining a light into Rhys' left eye. “Normal reaction from the pupil.” The light is turned off. “Please look at the corners of the room, Rhys.”

Rhys does so, feeling something like hope return to his chest at finally being able to see the world fully again. “It works,” he whispers disbelievingly, mostly to himself.

The doctor turns hastily, looking for something in his bag, his voice shaking. “God did not forsake you. I saw the damage done to your eye and did not think it would ever function again, and here I am, proven wrong by God's infinite mercy!” He shoves a hand mirror before Rhys', allowing him to see himself for the first time in weeks.

Rhys looks into the mirror, and for one heart-stopping moment he does not see himself — he sees Jack.

Then he blinks, realising the reason for it quickly. His left eye isn't a warm brown any longer but a clear, bright blue instead. He stares at himself, the mirror in his grasp trembling.

The doctor pets his arm, soothing him, and only then does Rhys realise that he is crying.

* * *

For one wonderful day Rhys is able to forget about the pain, his missing arm, the betrayal.

But then the shadows start to wander, taking vague forms even without Jack around, and the new eye loses its shine very quickly.

He spends hours arguing with himself about calling Jack and telling him that something is wrong with the eye he gave Rhys, that he might have made a mistake. At first it is only fear that stops him form opening his mouth. What if there's a good reason for Jack's absence, what if he got bored waiting for Rhys to recover and be interesting again?

What if he will take the eye back, using the same dagger?

Long hours later, and he doesn't care anymore if Jack kills him for his ungratefulness, carves him open- It is only pride that stops the furious words from flowing.

He lets the dark thoughts consume him, convinced that after God, Jack has now turned away form him as well.

He can't stomach to look at the crucifix on the wall any longer.

* * *

Jack remains absent, and his only constant companions are the shadows, moving at their own leisure, and becoming more solid looking as time passes. Vaughn and Yvette are still there as well, and Rhys decides to stop rebuking their presence and to allow them back into his life. If they really did betray him, if they really did sell him out to Henderson and cause Rhys to be singled out by the madman, then Rhys doesn't want to know the truth anymore.

He tries to ignore the lingering doubts, their furtive glances at his new eye and empty side, content to let them gossip about the current happenings in the monastery, simply letting their familiar voices wash over him.

Rhys doesn't see any reason to lie to himself any longer.

He misses Jack's presence, the dark promises, the possessive touches. Jack was there when Rhys lost his faith, the very foundation he built himself upon. And now Jack's gone, and Rhys doesn't know what he did wrong or where to even begin making amends.

How do you regain the attention of someone who can have everything that he wants with a snap of a finger?

There's a short pause in the conversation about the missing rosaries, and Rhys asks something that only now occurred to him, “What happened to Henderson?”

An uncomfortable silence, and Rhys turns his eyes from Yvette to Vaughn, more than willing to wait them out.

“He's gone from the monastery,” Vaughn answers finally, adjusting his glasses in a telling, nervous move and averting Rhys' gaze.

“Gone,” Rhys repeats tonelessly, looking at Yvette for elaboration.

Yvette makes a disgusted noise, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “He got transferred to a small church at the edge of nowhere.” She ignores Vaughn's pointed cough, her expression grim. “Still got his pension, and all he has to do is work with the appointed specialists trying to figure out what triggered his 'meltdown' to keep it.”

Vaughn sighs heavily, placing his head in his hands.

Rhys swallows, disbelievingly mouthing the word 'meltdown' to himself.

Yvette nods, the corners of her lips curling upwards into an ugly smile. “That's what they are calling what he did to you.” She looks to her left, where Rhys knows the crucifix still hangs on the wall. “Makes you wonder if we made the right choice, staying here,” she says quietly.

Vaughn shifts abruptly in his seat, and then there's a muffled sound, and Yvette flinches, turning to stare at Vaughn in angry disbelief.

“Okay, that's enough of that!” Vaughn claps his hands, smiling awkwardly at Rhys. “I still need to tell you about the sweet changes happening in accounting right now, right?”

Rhys inhales shakily, something dark and ugly waking inside of him. “Actually, I think I need to get some rest now,” he says quietly, feeling awful when his friends look at him with open disappointment written on their faces. He knows that he won't be able to muster up anything resembling a smile, so he tries to soften his words instead, shrugging awkwardly with his left shoulder. “I'm still getting used to the lowered dosage.”

His friends stand up, their expressions easing slightly, accepting his weak excuse. Vaughn places his chair back against the table at the far wall, and Yvette steps closer to him, placing her hand carefully on the bandages still wrapped thickly around his right shoulder.

“I'm going to sent out enough faulty requisitions to give them a papery hell,” she stage-whispers to him, and Rhys can't quite bring himself to look her in the eyes, choosing to look at her ear instead. “I'll make them pay for screwing you over like this, don't worry.”

Vaughn clears his throat loudly again, gesturing past the already opened door he's standing at. 

Yvette grips his shoulder tightly for a moment before strolling towards Vaughn and out of the room.

Vaughn waves at him, and Rhys nods in acknowledgement, trying bis best not to fall apart before them.

Once the door is closed he sighs heavily, letting his eyes fall shut.

“What is your problem?”

Rhys tilts his head, listening to the muffled voices of his friends.

“My problem? My problem!?”

It's rare for Vaughn to become so angry that he gets loud, and Rhys slides down the bed, curling into the blanket. 

“My problem is that you are going to get us kicked out if they catch you!”

“You can't tell me to just accept this, that _you_ accept this, because I won't. I _can't_.” 

Yvette's voice breaks on the last word.

Then it's quiet for a moment, and Rhys thinks that they have left, unsure if he's sad or relieved by that.

“I want you to be careful until Rhys isn't depended on their medical knowledge anymore, and then we'll tear this place apart together. Deal?”

Rhys is trembling now, squeezing his eyes shut, purely concentrating on breathing while outside the steps of his friends fade until his ears can't pick them up anymore.

How did it all go so wrong?

For the first time in his life Rhys was finally sure of something. Throwing himself into faith and subservience came so natural to him, feeling right like nothing before ever had. It wasn't just the knowledge of God looking after him, there with him for every step of the way. Rhys _thrives_ on being part of something larger than himself, something better.

Take that away from him and what is left?

A sudden scraping sound from the door, and for one moment Rhys thinks a mouse is trying to get into his room. It's not a mouse, not even an animal — it's one of the black things, trying to squeeze itself through the gap between floor and wood, giving off a weird sense of _wrath_ that Rhys can't explain. He watches it struggle for a moment, closing his eyes when it stops being amusing to watch.

He still hopes that they will just go away if he ignores them.

Rhys sighs deeply. He has Vaughn an Yvette, and he hates himself for not being able to feel better at the thought. He's only holding them back, isn't he? Were they every truly into the idea of moving up in the monastery — did they ever truly _believe_?

Rhys' curls even further into himself, wanting the thoughts to stop. He presses his fingernails into the wound at his shoulder until the pain makes him inhale sharply.

He thought he could find a new purpose in Jack, believed the man when he told Rhys that he was something special.

Maybe that was all he ever wanted, being special.

He bites his lip, condemning his tears to remain silent. The worn, long sleep shirt he is wearing suddenly seems too tight, and he kicks off the blanket, trying to free himself of it quickly. It takes him long, frustrating minutes, his movements still clumsy, his body's centre still off. So much effort for simply undressing himself, and all the while the empty sleeve flaps around, mocking his pathetic struggle — he slips underneath the blanket again, shaking with a mixture of strain and despair. 

Maybe he deserves this fate: Refused by God, disfigured, discarded by the devil. 

Rhys shivers, but at least he isn't fooling himself any longer. Whatever Jack's true name, Rhys sold his soul to him willingly, and if heaven and hell ever truly existed, if God is real after all...

…then Rhys deserves to burn in hell for all of eternity for making that decision.

He blinks rapidly, only for his blurry eyes to settle on a dozen writhing shadows amassed before him, wafting around the edge of the bed like waves.

The candles in the room flicker, and Rhys hopes viciously that they will go out, plunge him into utter darkness where he belongs.

Maybe he'll finally be lucky and these things will finish tearing him apart.

“And here I was wondering what had the little guys practically salivating,” Jack's voice says suddenly, and Rhys startles, looking up at him with wide eyes.

Jack is still dressed in the robes of Father John, but his face is entirely himself. He has his arms crossed in front of his chest, one eyebrow raised and a mocking smile on his lips.

Rhys sucks in a breath, righting himself awkwardly, almost giddy at Jack's appearance. Around them, the living shadows vanish one by one, pushing through cracks in the wall and the gap underneath the door. 

Jack's expression darkens, turning angry, and Rhys hold himself very still when Jack moves closer, leaning forward. 

“What the hell do you think you are doing? I know you are kinda slow sometimes, but _this_ —“ He taps against the the top of Rhys' bandaged shoulder, avoiding the now bloodied parts of it, “is not exactly helping you heal, pumpkin.”

He looks at Rhys expectantly then, clearly waiting for an explanation, and Rhys averts his gaze, ashamed of himself.

Jack sighs heavily, letting himself fall backwards onto the chair Yvette left next to the bed, sounding and looking so disappointed, Rhys wishes he could simply disappear as well.

“It really is a shame,” Jack says absently, eyes on Rhys and full of pity, and Rhys flinches as if struck. He curls forward and into himself, frantically trying to hide the stump with his remaining hand, his head hidden in the crook of his arm.

The realisation that Jack doesn't desire him anymore washes through him, cold and biting.

Then again, why should he? Rhys isn't whole any longer. He's weak, pathetic. Beaten, not even able to hide the silent sobs wrecking through him in heavy shudders.

He should have let himself be devoured, sullied by Jack while Jack still wanted him — it couldn't have possible felt worse than this.

The chair creaks and a firm hand grips the hairs at the back of Rhys' neck, forcing him to uncurl with unrelenting pressure. Jack is looking at him thoughtfully, his head tilted to the side, and Rhys hiccups, vision blurry.

“I wasn't talking about your arm,” Jack says slowly, as if talking to a child, and Rhys tries to stop his heaving breaths, all of his attention focused on Jack, desperate for his every word.

Jack nods towards the stump. “That? Is nothing. _Means_ nothing.” His voice is full of conviction, brooking no argument. “Do you understand?” 

_Nothing_. Rhys baulks at the very notion, tensing, filled with so much anger for a second, he's almost dizzy with it.

Jack continues, entirely unconcerned by Rhys' reaction. “A lost limb means nothing in the long run. You still have your brain, and you are still the most handsome guy around here.” His lips curl into a teasing smile. “Apart from me, of course.”

Despite himself Rhys laughs, a choked off, high and truly ugly sound, but Jack seems pleased by it, humming. His fingers dig into the knotted muscles at Rhys' neck until Rhys inhales deeply, shakily, feeling himself calm.

“You know, I wanted to punish you for letting those two backstabbers into your life again,” Jack says nonchalantly, and Rhys doesn't understand why it's suddenly so difficult to grasp the meaning of Jack's words.

“I always forget how absurdly frail and needy you humans are.” The fingers of Jack's other hand stroke over Rhys' hair, pushing it away from his forehead, and Rhys leans into the touch greedily, not caring if it's meant to be fond or derisive. “I guess I'll have to share you with them for a bit longer. After all, I have a holy institution to subvert, and that seems to damper my free time considerably.”

The fingers on his neck wander lower, following his spine, and Rhys moans helplessly, his eyes slowly falling shut, mesmerised by Jack's eyes, shining almost, even in the dim twilight of the room.

“Why did you leave?” Rhys asks, the words falling from his mouth without his concrete intention.

For a moment, the fingers stop with their wonderful ministrations, and Rhys blinks slowly, dimly wondering if he should have kept his mouth shut.

Jack raises an eyebrow at him, and the fingers in Rhys' hair tighten, bending his head backwards until his throat is bared to Jack completely, Jack's other hand keeping his back curled awkwardly. “I was doing you a favour, actually.” Jack leans forward, bending low until his every exhale grazes Rhys' lips.

Rhys can feel his mouth fall open, unable to do anything but stare at Jack with wide eyes.

“They thought Henderson was out of my reach now, but lets just say...” The corners of his mouth curl upwards into a grin that is all teeth, making the lines of the scar twist, transforming his face into an apparition worthy of a nightmare. Jack finishes in a hiss, “They were dead wrong.”

Suddenly Rhys has no problem remembering why he used to be afraid of Jack any longer, and his next inhale lodges itself in his throat.

Jack leaves him floundering like this for a bit, Rhys' heart hammering inside of his chest, too afraid to even blink. Just when his back begins to ache in earnest, protesting against the uncomfortable position, Jack lets go of him abruptly, leaning back in the chair again.

Hesitantly, Rhys rightens himself with his shaking arm, wary of Jack's bland expression.

“I would probably be really mad now, but seeing as you've already gotten yourself ready for my arrival...” He trails off, giving Rhys a slow and obvious once-over, and Rhys freezes, only now realising that he is wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. “I very much appreciate the view,” Jack all put purrs.

Rhys lunges for the blanket, feeling himself flush when that only prompts Jack to laugh, a deep, unsettling sound that seems to wrap itself around Rhys like a vice.

Staring at the blanket clutched to his chest desperately, Rhys concentrates on calming his wildly beating heart, the loud rush of blood in his ears. 

Isn't this exactly what he wanted? Jack's undivided attention, his touch? Even now, with shame and embarrassment making his stomach churn, he wants nothing more than those hands back on him. And yet, he can't even bring himself to look into Jack's eyes.

Uncomfortable silence, finally broken by a heavy sigh, and Jack's toneless musings. “I don't think this deal we've got is working for me.”

Rhys' head snap up as if under an electronic current, cold, hard panic taking possession of him. He searches Jack face frantically for any hint of humour, but there's nothing — only the downwards turn of Jack's mouth.

When Rhys remains silent, Jack continues, “I carved into my own flesh to give you a new and improved eye, one that is supposed to give you a, well, _glimpse_ into my world, and I don't even know if it's working properly yet.” He points behind his back, and Rhys carefully bends to the side, looking at the door. “Can you see them?” Jack asks, seemingly annoyed at even having to voice the question.

Rhys squints, and after a moment he can glimpse the twisting, black things just on the other side of the door. He looks back at Jack, voice hesitant. “What are they?”

Jack dismisses his question with a wave of a hand. “Completely harmless, don't hurt yourself thinking about it.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “So, my gift is working, glad we finally cleared that up. And then I go out of my way to give the lowlife that hurt you what he had coming, only for you to ask me why I left? Really?”

Even without raising his voice, Jack's anger comes across loud and clear, and Rhys can feel himself cowering, trying to make himself as small as possible. He scolds himself for even thinking that Jack's present was faulty, that Jack would leave him just like that.

“And what about you?” Jack's eyes are piercing, his stare unforgiving, and Rhys bites his lip. “You are being awfully selfish, Rhysie, wouldn't you agree?” He places a hand on his chest, closing his eyes. “I'm honestly disappointment.”

Somewhere in the back of his head he is aware that Jack is playing him, but that concern is drowned out completely by Jack's last word, echoing in Rhys' thoughts until he thinks he'll break under its weight. Jack is disappointed in him, and he has every right for it. Jack did so much for him already, and all Rhys could think of was complain. “I'm sorry,” he manages to choke out.

“'Sorry' isn't going to cut it this time,” Jack says dispassionately, his eyes wandering away from Rhys.

It feel a lot like losing him, and Rhys opens his mouth quickly. “What can I do?”

That seems to be the right thing to say — Jack's gaze settles on Rhys again, his head tilted thoughtfully. “Do you remember what you promised me?”

He does, of course he does. How could Rhys ever forget the words that might as well be burned into his brain.  
_I accept your gracious offer, and you as my personal saviour. I give myself to you freely, and accept you into my very heart._  
He nods quickly, eager to please Jack in any way possible.

“Well, how about actually showing me that you weren't just repeating my words to get a new eye, free of charge?”

Rhys blinks at him, and Jack sighs again, rolling his eyes. He points his chin towards Rhys, one corner of his mouth curling upwards. “Show me the goods, sweetheart.”

A shudder rushes through Rhys, and his grip on the blanket tightens reflexively. He chances a furtive glance at Jack, only to see Jack's smile widen.

This is what he wanted— what he _wants_. Jack's attention, the promise of Jack's touch in the near future.

So why is he shaking?

Even with his belief in pitiful shambles, it seems like he can't quite let go of the one thing he always took pride in: The purity of his body.

But God did nothing when this untouched body was tormented, almost killed for something he had no control over. There's no reason to cling to it, not to let Jack show him what he had been denying himself for so long.

And yet...

Rhys looks at the crucifix on his wall for the first time in an eternity, a small part of his heart still hoping for _something_ — a sign, a hint—

Next to him, Jack clucks his tongue, standing up. “Oh, I'm so sorry, Rhysie.” He strolls over to the wall and stops next to the crucifix, looking over his shoulder at Rhys. “I forgot this piece of questionable interior design actually used to mean something to you.”

He stretches a hand out towards the holy symbol, and Rhys stops breathing —

Jack touches the bottom of the wooden cross, and nothing happens.

Rhys exhales, disappointed and relieved all at once.

“Awkward, right?” Jack drawls, grinning widely and a gleam in his eyes. His finger presses up, and Rhys watches the crucifix fall.

The dull sound of it hitting the floor resonates within his bones.

Jack walks back to the chair, sitting down again, his posture relaxed and his fingers steepled.

He looks like a king prepared to receive his due offering.

And with something like pride Rhys realises that _he_ is the offering, deemed worthy by Jack himself.

The shaking stops, and with one long exhale Rhys lets go of the blanket, letting it slide down his body, baring himself to Jack's hungry gaze.

He is— he is not exactly a prize, though, is he? It's not even the missing arm Rhys is worrying about right now. He was always a bit soft around the middle, even before he spent many long weeks recuperating. The lack of outdoor activity and sunshine probably didn't help his pallor, either. Combined with his gangly legs...

Rhys stares at the floor, fighting against the desire to cover himself up again, shivering against the cool air on his skin, awaiting Jack's judgement.

“That's it, sweetheart,” Jack murmurs appreciatively, “Feel free to continue with the show any time now.”

Instead of looking at Jack, Rhys slides lower onto the bed, curling his fingers into the waistband of his shorts without letting himself think about what he is doing.

He doesn't know if he should get it over with as quickly as possible or if he really should try putting on a show for Jack, and so he ends up undressing himself in a clumsy shuffle, his own legs somehow managing to get in the way of his efforts. He feels his face burn, excitement and shame making his stomach flutter. 

He keeps his gaze on the wall to his right, acutely aware of the sound of Jack breathing right next to him, of his very presence.

His whole body flinches when the bed suddenly dips, Jack's clothed leg settling against his naked one. “Well, would you look at that.” Jack's voice is low, deep, prompting Rhys to look at him again.

Thankfully, Jack's eyes are not on his face, instead they are fixated onto his naked middle, his—

His half-erect cock, filling even further underneath Jack's scrutiny. Rhys swallows a whine, throwing his arm across his eyes, trying to hide his blushing face.

“Is that for me? No, wait, you don't need to answer that.” Jack chuckles, and a palm settles on Rhys' left knee, sliding between his legs and slowly moving upwards.

Rhys bites his lower lip, swallowing the embarrassing sounds wanting to escape, feeling himself come apart underneath Jack's touch.

“I knew you would be perfect,” Jack says quietly, and his hand closes around Rhys' cock even before he has finished the sentence.

Rhys cannot hold in the shout that expands his ribcage then or stop his back from arching, his hips bucking up in a desperate effort to get more of that wonderful touch.

Jack doesn't move, seemingly content with watching Rhys trash on the bed, sucking in heaving gasps through his open mouth, making him crave more even when the touch becomes almost painful in its intensity.

Jack's other hand takes hold of his wrist then, and Rhys whimpers a quiet protest when his last line of protection is taken from him as well. Jack presses his arm into the bedding, settling himself astride Rhys' thighs, towering above him. Jack's face is marked with gleeful eagerness, practically crowing, “There you are.”

The hand on his cock tightens, and Rhys whines, staring at Jack helplessly, overwhelmed by a heady mixture of pleasure and pain.

“I wonder how long I could keep you like this before you go insane,” Jack muses, chuckling when Rhys shudders underneath him. “Yeah, probably too much for your first time. Later then.” His hand begins slowly moving up and down on Rhys' cock, a dry, dragging touch, and Rhys' toes curl into the bedding, his mouth falling open in a silent shout.

Jack purrs against his gaping mouth, and all Rhys can see are Jack's eyes, bright and intense. “You've been so _good_ keeping yourself pure for all these years, only waiting for me to come by and pluck your ripe, gorgeous body from right underneath His nose.” 

The movements on Rhys' dick become smoother, slicked by his own leaking fluids, and Rhys can feel something building in his centre, a sensation like _falling_ that won't be denied.

“What do you want, Rhysie?” Jack whispers, and Rhys gives in to the vague urge that plagued him for so long already, surging up against the smirking mouth, pressing his lips clumsily against Jack's.

For a moment Jack freezes, his eyes widening, though Rhys might just be imagining that. A savage growl, and Jack lets go of Rhys' arm, curling his palm around Rhys' neck instead, tilting his head back before plunging his tongue deep into Rhys gasping mouth.

Rhys' grips Jack's shoulder, barely able to hold on under the onslaught on his senses, afraid he won't be able to put himself back together again this time. 

“Jack,” he presses out past his stinging lips when Jack lets him up to breathe, saying it like a prayer, an appeal, an invitation.

He feels Jack shudder underneath the hand he has curled into Jack's robe, and that more than anything causes Rhys to shut his eyes, coming with a shout, muffled by Jack swallowing it greedily right from his lips.

Rhys opens his eyes slowly, his entire body relaxed and heavy.

Jack is sitting next to him on the bed again, drawing on Rhys' stomach with a concentrated look on his face.

Rhys looks down, only to close his eyes quickly again, blushing when he realises Jack is using his own fluids to paint on him. He concentrates on breathing slowly, not wanting to disturb Jack. Like this, he can almost guess at the shape Jack is painting into his skin — Rhys can't be sure, but it might be the symbol carved into Jack's face. Sleepily, he wonders, not for the first time, who marked Jack, and for what reason.

The touch on his stomach stops, and Rhys tilts his head, looking at Jack.

Jack watches him with an inscrutable expression on his face, and Rhys smiles at him, reaching out with his hand to touch Jack's face carefully, curling it around Jack's cheek.

The happiness in his chest expands even further when Jack simply... lets him. Rhys says, voice rough, “Guess we match now.” He isn't quite sure if he is talking about their mismatched eyes or the symbol or both, too tired to think too much about it.

Jack chuckles, taking Rhys' hand and pressing a short kiss onto it. “Guess we do.” He places Rhys arm back onto the bed, standing up and covering Rhys with the discarded blanket. “Go to sleep, pumpkin. I pulled some strings, and lets just say that you've got a big day tomorrow.”

He grins, and Rhys yawns, making an inquisitive sound.

“Thanks to my stern advice, they are letting you lead a sermon tomorrow, to show their appreciation of your hard work and unshaken belief.”

Rhys frowns, unsure even with the contentedness spread through him. “You don't mind?”

Jack laughs outright this time, bowing forward and pressing his hand onto Rhys' chest possessively. “It might be His words on your lips, but mine are in your heart. Now go to sleep, pumpkin.”

Warmth spreads through him from Jack's touch, and Rhys lets his eyes fall shut, more than happy to listen to Jack.

He sleeps entirely dreamless, and better than he has in weeks.

* * *

On the next day, Yvette demands to be the one to help him dress for the sermon, and Vaughn leaves them alone after a pointed look from her, shrugging helplessly.

They both know better than to argue with her when she's this quiet and tense.

Rhys doesn't mind Yvette seeing him in nothing more than his underwear. They've known each other for so long already, it almost doesn't even really register with him anymore. The only distracting thing in these situations are Vaughn's steel abs, and those are absent right now.

Rhys can't stop himself from looking down, though or feeling somewhat cheated when there is no mark on the skin of his stomach, no visible proof that Jack's hands were ever on him in the first place.

Yesterday's night changed him in a profound away Rhys can't even really describe yet, and not having anything to show for it is incredibly frustrating.

He can still feel the path Jack's fingers claimed for themselves, and he shivers slightly at the feel of the phantom touch, making Yvette pause for a moment, looking concerned.

Rhys coughs into his fist, shaking his head in answer and at himself. He probably shouldn't think about yesterday's night or Jack at all while he's in such a state of undress.

She's silent through it all, restricting herself to short commands. He lifts his arm when she asks him to, and the robe descends heavily around him, making him shiver.

Yvette doesn't let the empty sleeve flap against his side, keeping a firm hold on it. Rhys wonders if she caught a glimpse of the mess he made of his shirts a few days ago, when he cut off the left sleeves with a shaking hand and tears in his eyes. Or maybe he isn't giving her enough credit, and she just _knows_.

Yvette folds the empty sleeve carefully, her other hand taking a pin from her hair, fixing the useless piece of cloth to his shoulder with it.

Something uncurls in Rhys' chest at the gesture, and he covers her hand with his own quickly, pressing down. He manages to smile at Yvette when her startled eyes settle on him, hoping that it will be enough to show his gratitude, unable to make his moth work.

She grins at him, wide and fleeting, but all the more rewarding for it.

Yvette puts her hands on her hips then, appraising him, and Rhys twirls for her, relishing the chuckle that gets him. “Everything where it should be?”

“As far as I can tell,” she says simply, looking away from him for a moment.

Rhys frowns, feeling his good mood dampen. “But...?” he prompts carefully, drawing the word out.

She sighs, meeting his eyes again, deep lines of concern on her forehead. “There's something you should know.”

That's never a good thing, is it?

“I haven't told Vaughn, because I don't think that we would agree on this.” Yvette bites her lip, hesitating. “Henderson is dead.”

Rhys inhales sharply, feeling his eyes widen.

“Do you... do you want to know what happened?” Yvette asks carefully, and Rhys swallows, looking down at the dark, polished shoes on his feet.

 _No_ , is his first, almost visceral reaction. But then he thinks about Jack's words from last night: _And then I go out of my way to give the lowlife that hurt you what he had coming, only for you to ask me why I left? Really?_

What can he do but nod? He already failed to show his appreciation for Jack's first gift, the eye, missed his chance to properly say 'thank you' for it. The least he can do now is hear what else Jack did for him.

Yvette seems almost relieved by his reaction, the words falling from her mouth immediately, almost eagerly. “He killed himself. Clawed out his eyes with his fingernails and then put a letter opener through his throat.”

Rhys wishes he could feel relief, satisfaction, _something_ — but there's only a vague sense of nausea settling low in his stomach.

Yvette steps closer to him, taking his shaking fist, curling both of her hands around it and squeezing, her expression like thunder, her voice quiet. “Maybe justice exists after all.”

Rhys nods jerkily, his head bowed. He hasn't let himself think about Henderson at all, not even about the good times, the almost perfect student-mentor relationship they used to have. Considering what the man did to him, shouldn't it be easier to feel grateful to Jack for killing him? For being the bloodied sword of vengeance Rhys secretly wanted?

He nods, managing to smile crookedly at Yvette, squeezing her hands in return. “It's... something.”

An end, and a beginning.

* * *

"Your eye..." Vaughn says quietly, and Rhys resists the urge to touch it, feeling the phantom twitch of his lost limb like a hot brand. The robe feels awkward on him now, stifling.

Vaughn smiles, small but encouraging, and the discomfort eases slightly. "They look good on you, the mismatched colours." He carefully bumps his arm against Rhys', and Rhys doesn't know how to deal with the familiarity right now, feeling frail and on edge. "I probably couldn't pull that look off," Vaughn says absently, his gaze settling on the altar ahead of them. Then, more quietly, fervently, "Don't tell Yvette I said that, but I think it really is a miracle."

"A miracle," Rhys echoes tonelessly, his eyes roaming over the waiting people on the benches. The shadows around them waver and swirl, undeniably alive, some more solid-looking than others. They pass a middle-aged man, and the- the thing on his shoulder reeks of _greedenvyjealousy_. Rhys can't tear his gaze away, and the shadow gives him a wide, lipless facsimile of a grin, a view into a black abyss, its red eyes glowing.

Even with Jack's assurance that these “lesser beings” are no danger to him, Rhys doesn't thing he will ever get used to their sight or their presence.

He quickly looks ahead again, thinking about blood spilled in his own name, about Jack's hands wringing his first orgasm from him, about the promise of _more_ already written onto his body.

"Yeah," Rhys agrees quietly as they reach the altar, and Vaughn gives him an inconspicuous thumbs-up before pressing the bible into his waiting hand. 

Jack's laughter rings inside of his head then, becoming louder and louder until the sound of it seems to consume him, filling him to his very core. Rhys shivers, in reverence and apprehension, whispering hoarsely, "A miracle."


End file.
